The Floating Outfit 25

by J. T. Edson

A grin split Derringer's face for, like Waco, he knew the Missouri had a reputation for being an exceptionally muddy river even when not in flood. So to help clear the subject Derringer explained how the house’s percentage worked, drawing in part of every bet made. He went on to explain to Waco how the limit protected the house by preventing the players doubling up on bet after bet until eventually they won; and also against the chance of a player walking in, betting a large sum on one roll, winning and walking out with the profits.

  ‘See, bo—Waco,’ Derringer finished, ‘you can only make seven double-up bets then if you lose that last you’d go over the limit. So you have to make several small bets and the house gets its rake-off with the percentage. That’s fair enough, the owner’s supplying a service and the upkeep of the game costs him money.’

  ‘Huh, huh,’ Waco replied. ‘I see it now. Let’s have a look at the other games, shall we?’

  While Waco might see the point of Derringer’s argument, he failed entirely to notice the time. So absorbed did he become that the fingers of the clock went moving around as Derringer examined game after game. At each he explained to Waco how it could be fixed so as to ensure the house won heavily and also told the youngster the game’s percentage. While giving the decks of cards a casual glance, Derringer warned Waco of the way players at the games tried to improve their luck. All in all Waco was receiving an education in the art of crooked gambling and, as in all the subjects his friends taught him, he stored the information away for future reference.

  Just as the three lawmen were leaving the saloon, Mark Counter strolled up to them.

  ‘I thought you was headed for bed?’ Dusty asked.

  ‘Was. Only there’s a feller down the hall from me who’s got a helluva appetite and it worries me.’

  ‘Does, huh?’

  ‘Sure. I can figure a man wanting a stack of sandwiches near on two foot high, and a couple of bottles of whisky,’ Mark drawled. ‘Only I can’t see why he needs half-a-dozen glasses, cigars and pipe tobacco.’

  ‘Half-a-dozen, huh?’ Dusty grunted. ‘Let’s go.’

  ‘This’s gone right by me,’ Waco stated as he followed the other three along the street in the direction of the hotel.

  ‘You’ll see, boy,’ Mark replied.

  The manager of the hotel was not present and his desk clerk, a young man fresh from the east, had ideas about the sanctity of the establishment’s guests. After hearing Dusty’s request, he shook his head and stated that he could only hand over his pass key on the manager’s orders.

  ‘It’s your door,’ Dusty drawled.

  ‘How do you mean, marshal?’

  ‘There’s something going on in one of your rooms. When I knock on the door, I may have to go in fast. That means either unlocking and opening the door—or we kick it in. It’s your choice, but I sure as hell can’t see Mr. Schafer thinking happy about you when he hears why we did it.’

  One thing the young man learned early in his career as a hotel desk clerk was that any trouble which happened in the building usually wound up as being his fault. In the small town back east he had never seen much of the law, but he guessed that Dusty did not aim to waste time arguing. Either he handed over the pass key or the small Texan’s party would break open the door and Schafer, the manager, was sure to hold the desk clerk responsible.

  Taking the key, Dusty led the others up the stairs and along the passage to the room Mark pointed out. They halted too on each side of the door, standing back against the wall. Reaching around, Dusty knocked loudly.

  ‘Law here,’ he shouted. ‘Open up!’

  There was no reply for a moment, so Dusty slipped the pass key into the lock and turned it. Thrusting open the door, Dusty went in fast, followed by the other three. All halted and looked at the scene before them. They saw it through a haze of tobacco smoke; half-a-dozen men seated around a bed and grabbing up money and cards hurriedly.

  ‘There’s no law against gambling, gents,’ Dusty remarked. ‘Open the window and let’s have us some air in here, boy.’

  While crossing the room, Waco studied the gamblers. Four of them were Texas cowhands and looked like they had only recently paid off a drive. One of the other pair looked like he might be a store-clerk or some other kind of town dweller, an innocent, honest appearing man in a cheap suit. The last of the six showed what he was, a professional gambler and most likely the organizer of the game.

  ‘Then what’d you bust in here for?’ asked the gambler sullenly.

  ‘Civic ordinance number thirty-seven, mister,’ Dusty replied. ‘It empowers the town marshal to examine any instrument, device or article used for the purpose of gambling.’

  ‘This could be a stick-up!’ yelped the townsman.

  ‘Don’t be loco,’ one of the cowhands replied. ‘That there’s Cap’n Fog and Mark Counter. I rode for them on that drive they made for Rocking H, when they made Wyatt Earp and Bat Masterson run out of Dodge City.’

  ‘Howdy, Vic,’ Dusty greeted, recognizing the man. ‘What happened?’

  ‘Gent here,’ said the cowhand, indicating the gambler, ‘got him a game up. Said we could play in his room and not have to pay any house charge. This other feller here,’ Vic waved to the townsman, ‘came along for a game.’

  ‘Huh huh!’ Dusty grunted. ‘Check over the cards, Frank.’

  Dusty knew there would be no trouble from the cowhands now he had been recognized as a friend. Otherwise the townsman’s words might have started shooting. Unless Dusty missed his guess—and he didn’t reckon he missed—that had been the man’s intention when shouting the suggestion of a hold-up.

  ‘Hell, these cards have designs all over their backs,’ the gambler growled. ‘Everybody knows you can’t mark them.’

  ‘That’s what your sort want everybody to think,’ Derringer replied over the other players’ rumble of agreement.

  Gathering in the cards, Derringer gripped them firmly in his left hand. He ran his right thumb over the upper edge like a child playing with a ‘moving picture’ book, watching the flipped pasteboards intently. When he had repeated the process twice more, Derringer offered the deck to Waco.

  ‘Try that and see what you see, b—’

  ‘For gawd’s sake say “boy” just once,’ Waco suggested. ‘You’re dang nigh old enough to be my grandpappy anyways.’

  Derringer grinned as he realized that he had been admitted into the select few who could address Waco with the name ‘boy’ and not wind up fighting.

  ‘Can’t see a danged th—’ Waco went on, following Derringer’s actions with the deck of cards. ‘Hey though, the pattern’s changed—’

  ‘Just sit right there, hombre!’

  The words cracked out from Dusty’s lips and were accompanied by the click of his right hand Colt coming to full cock as he threw down on the gambler and halted the man’s move towards his jacket’s sleeve. An instant later the townsman found himself with a first-class view of the bore of Mark’s right side Colt, Both men were covered and sat very still, all ideas of resisting further comments on the cards forgotten by them.

  ‘You mean they was cheating?’ growled one of the cowhands.

  ‘Could be,’ Dusty replied. ‘Just you boys sit right there and leave us handle it, huh?’

  ‘You’d best do it, Wilf,’ Vic warned. ‘Cap’n Fog’s got a right convincing way with him happen you don’t.’

  ‘How about it, Frank?’ Dusty asked.

  Taking the cards from Waco, Derringer riffled them once more, inserting a finger in between two of them. He removed the card and held it towards Dusty and said, ‘They’re what’s known as “block-outs”. There’s a lot of people believe there has to be a white border around the design before the cards can be marked. I reckon the idea was started by a tinhorn. See that piece of the diamond patterning on the back? It’s been darkened a mite more than the rest and is just a mite out of shape.’

  Even when pointed out, the blocking-out took some spotting. Both the gambler and his partner
must have possessed keen vision to make use of the marking.

  ‘But that deck was new opened, with the Federal Revenue stamp on the outside, cap’n,’ Vic objected. ‘I wouldn’t’ve been loco enough to play otherwise.’

  ‘I know two fellers in Kansas City who earn maybe thirty-five dollars a week steaming off the Revenue seals, marking the cards then sealing the deck again,’ Derringer answered.

  Surprise showed on the cowhands’—and Waco’s—faces. A cowhand only earned thirty-five dollars with a month’s hard work.

  ‘Share out all the money that’s on the table, boys,’ Dusty ordered, using the term ‘table’ even though the game had been played on a bed. ‘And in future if you have to gamble, do it in a saloon. You won’t win anyways, but at least there you’ll not be cheated out of it.’

  Chuckling at Dusty’s adroit summing up of a man’s chances when it came to gambling, the cowhands gathered up the money and started to share it among themselves. As a fair amount of both the gambler and the townsman’s money was included in the share-out, the cowhands had no complaints and Dusty knew they would have no desire to seek out and take retaliatory measures against the two men.

  Neither of the crooks said a word in protest, but sat scowling and watched the delighted cowhands troop out of the room. Then the gambler asked what would happen to them.

  ‘That depends,’ Dusty replied. ‘Search the room, Frank. Waco, help Mark search this pair.’

  ‘Keep close to him while you’re doing it, boy,’ Mark prompted, ‘and lay your guns aside while you do it if there’s more than one of you. Let the other man keep the prisoner covered. Another thing, keep your groin, gut and the rest out of the way while you’re doing it.’

  Both Waco and Mark laid aside their guns and let Dusty cover the two tinhorns. Swiftly Mark demonstrated the ‘pat search’ used by lawmen to locate hidden but fairly bulky objects such as weapons. The blond giant worked from behind his man, the gambler, removing a Remington Double Derringer from the man’s right sleeve and an ivory-gripped, spear-pointed push dagger with a four-inch blade and a spring-away sheath from up the left. Following Mark’s moves, Waco searched the townsman and ensured that his man had no weapons hidden away.

  While this went on, Derringer checked the gambler’s belongings and on opening a case found what amounted to a small gambling casino; including a miniature roulette wheel and cloth layout, several decks of cards, all marked or otherwise doctored and a few dice which carried loads or were mis-spotted.

  ‘What now?’ growled the gambler.

  ‘We’re taking you in,’ Dusty replied. ‘Do you want to see a lawyer?’

  ‘Does it have to come to a trial?’ asked the townsman.

  ‘Don’t add attempted bribery to it,’ Dusty warned. ‘Take them in, boy. Where do you live, hombre?’

  ‘Down at the other hotel,’ the townsman, to whom Dusty addressed the question, replied sullenly.

  ‘Take him and collect his gear, Mark, Frank. Waco and I’ll handle this one.’

  At the jail Dusty had the two men thoroughly searched and listed their property having them sign the list before locking the items in the office safe, then he consigned the two men to one of the cells. In the morning they would be taken before the judge, have a hefty fine slapped on them and then be seen on their way out of town.

  ‘What’ll we do with this, Dusty?’ Mark asked, nodding to the case of crooked gambling gear.

  ‘Leave it here,’ Derringer suggested, ‘I’ll see how much I can teach the boy with it.’

  ‘I’d surely hate to grow up all big and ignorant,’ Waco agreed, giving Mark a studied and knowing glance. ‘If I did, all I’d be good for’d be chasing ga—Yeeow! Is that clock right?’

  All eyes turned to the wall clock. They had been so engrossed in their work that none of them gave a thought to the passing of time. Staring with horrified eyes, Waco tried to imagine the clock’s fingers did not show half past seven.

  ‘It’s right as the off-side of a horse,’ Dusty answered and went on innocently, ‘Was you going someplace?’

  ‘You show her who’s boss, boy,’ Mark whooped as the youngster, without offering any answer to Dusty’s question, dashed out of the office.

  ‘She knows who’s boss,’ Derringer contributed.

  Laughing, the three men watched Waco hurry along the sidewalk in the direction of the Fair Lady Saloon.

  ‘He’s a good kid,’ Derringer remarked as they turned from the window.

  ‘He’s a damned good man to have siding you in a fight,’ Dusty corrected.

  ‘Yep!’ agreed Mark. ‘He’ll do to ride the river with. Now I’m going to the hotel to try and get some sleep.’

  ‘Lon’s not back yet,’ Dusty pointed out, then looked at Derringer. ‘Was I to be asked, Frank, I’d say you just volunteered for my partner tonight.’

  ‘Me?’ Derringer croaked. ‘I’m supposed to be the gambling expert.’

  ‘So you are. Get the cards out while things are quiet and we’ll have a few hands of crib—and make sure you don’t take one of the decks we confiscated from our two guests.’

  Waco hurried towards the Fair Lady Saloon. A cold feeling came over him as he thought of the waiting girl and he would have been willing to bet all he owned that Babsy was not amused. Fact being she would likely peel his hide off when he arrived.

  An indignant looking Babsy stood on the sidewalk before the saloon. She wore a neat little blue dress with a bustle, a picture hat and held a parasol. From the way her dainty right foot tapped on the sidewalk, Waco could tell she was pot-boiling mad and he hoped she would listen to his explanation.

  ‘Well?’ Babsy asked. ‘I’ve been working.’

  ‘Huh! A likely story. I saw you coming out of the Wooden Spoon!’

  ‘Sure,’ Waco agreed. ‘We went in to che—’

  ‘I suppose you think I’m going to fall for that!’ Babsy squeaked.

  ‘It’s the living truth. I went in with Dusty and Frank Derringer, him being our gambling deputy. Then just as we finished, Mark come along with a crooked poker game and we raided it. One way and ano—’

  Again Waco’s words trailed off as some instinct warned him that Babsy would not take kindly to the suggestion that he preferred listening to Derringer on the subject of gambling to taking her to supper. Actually Waco did not prefer the former, only Derringer made it so interesting that the youngster lost all track of time.

  ‘Well?’ Babsy repeated.

  Which same was when Waco began to get annoyed. ‘I told you I was working late!’ he growled. ‘Now I’m here, right side up and all my buttons on. So let’s us go eat supper.’

  ‘Just like that?’

  ‘Just like that!’

  ‘Then no thank you, mate!’ snorted Babsy. ‘I’ll go to supper myself.’

  ‘All right then!’ Waco snapped back. ‘Go to going!’

  ‘Don’t worry. I’m going to!’

  At which point both Babsy and Waco paused and waited for the other to make a move that would lead them to reconciliation. The trouble being that both of them possessed an almost equal streak of mule; and neither intended to give in first.

  After waiting for almost a minute, Babsy gave an angry snort, turned and stamped off along the street. Waco watched her go, standing where he was and scowling at the brightly dressed little figure. Man, that lil blonde gal looked as cute as a June-bug and as desirable as anything he could ever remember seeing. Only he failed to see him taking to the idea of any girl—even one as pretty as Babsy—getting all uppy with him.

  However, with all the various celebrating men in town it might not be any too safe for Babsy walking the streets alone. While an ordinary town girl would have been fairly safe even from a drunken cowhand, Babsy had become well-known for her singing and dancing act at the Fair Lady. Cowhands and others often formed very wrong impressions of girls who worked in saloons; and that could lead Babsy right straight smack bang into trouble.

  Not that Waco gave
a damn either which-ways of course, but—well he was a town lawman and Miss Freddie had kind of made him responsible for the safety and well-being of her main and star performer.

  With his excuse made up to his own satisfaction, Waco walked along the street after the girl, keeping some thirty yards or so behind her and making no attempt to catch up with her. He reckoned that by the time they had reached the hotel, Babsy—all right, then, both of them—would have simmered down enough to patch things up and have their supper and buggy ride.

  Babsy knew that Waco followed her and reached much the same conclusion. All might have gone as planned if a brace of handsome, celebrating young Texas cowhands had not come from a store and removed their hats gravely as the girl approached. They had paid off from their herd the previous day and carried a mite more liquor than was good for them; although not so much that they failed to recognize the little girl who amused and charmed them the previous night at the Fair Lady.

  ‘Howdy, ma’am,’ the taller of the pair greeted. ‘I’m Tad, ’n’ this’s Beck.’

  ‘We saw your show last night,’ Beck told her seriously ‘Sure was good.’

  ‘Sure was,’ agreed Tad.

  ‘I’ll teach that there Waco!’ Babsy thought and then said, ‘Did you like it enough to take me to supper?’

  ‘Now you sure got a good idea there, ma’am,’ agreed Tad.

  From the start Babsy figured she might be going too far. While the two cowhands behaved politely at first, they grew more familiar as the meal—and liquor—progressed. The girl tried to attract Waco’s attention as he sat silently eating a meal across the room, but he refused to be drawn into what he knew must wind up in a fight. Not that Waco feared a fight. He felt a sense of responsibility and knew becoming involved in a public brawl was not the action a good lawman took.

  At last the meal ended and Babsy hoped to get away from the two cowhands so as to go and make her peace with Waco. However, Tad and Beck each took an arm and led her out on to the street. Night had fallen, with a moon throwing some light on the street. To Babsy’s horror there were few people about and the two cowhands began to steer her towards the Fair Lady.